The president went to the door and opened it, politely gesturing for Harper to precede him into the next room.
Its six large flat-panel wall displays situated around a rectangular conference table, the ECR had been designed to conform with other presidential chambers at sites inside and beyond the capital, including Camp David, Air Force One, and the top secret bunker installations in Mount Weather and elsewhere. The goal being to enhance the commander in chief ’s familiarity with and instant comfort in his surroundings at times of critical deliberation and national emergency.
The president’s closest advisors on matters of security and intelligence sat in six big black leather chairs around the table. Among them were two members of his cabinet, Secretary of Homeland Security Max Carlson and the newly ratified secretary of state, Jeff Dryfoos, the latter taking the place of the vice president, who was in Asia. Dryfoos was a newbie, having assumed the post after Brynn Fitzgerald’s recent resignation and formal announcement of her presidential bid. Her run had surprised no one less than Brenneman, who’d encouraged her to enter the heated race as his preferred successor.
Also, there in person as Harper entered were CIA director Andrews and the director of National Intelligence, Shirley Choate. If the full fifteen-member cabinet had convened, they and all other non-cabinet officials except the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff would have sat in a row of chairs along the wall. With only two executive departmental heads in attendance, there was ample room for everyone at the table.
Harper took his place next to Andrews, saying nothing, having gotten his preliminaries out of the way before the president pulled him aside. That consisted primarily of learning that no one knew very much about the attack, and even less about the situation in the ballroom.
There were laptops in front of each seat. As Harper sat, Andrews turned his own monitor toward his colleague.
Harper recognized the familiar box in the center of the screen. It was from TA, the Company’s Tech Analysis division-findings from the Iridium 11 geosynchronous satellite that scanned the Baltimore to Philadelphia corridor:
NUMBER: 202-Private
USER: Harper, Julie
STATUS: Blocked
BASELINE: Operational
Harper drew breath sharply. He had to struggle to keep from showing any emotion when he read the last line. It meant that while Julie’s phone could not be accessed, the number was still online.
Her phone had not been destroyed. That was the first positive sign he’d had since they were cut off.
“Thanks,” he whispered to Andrews.
The director nodded once and turned the monitor back.
Breathing steadily to calm himself, reminding himself that this was only the faintest positive sign, Harper turned his gaze to the wall monitor opposite him. He saw Mathis waiting quietly behind his desk 100 miles to the east. With his wire spectacles and horseshoe pattern baldness, he looked very much the part of the career administrator, which would accurately describe his resume.
As the president took his seat, a voice came over the multidirectional PA in the center of the table. It was one of the watch officers in the next room.
“Mr. President, we have SIOC online. It will be up on screen four whenever you’re ready.”
“Thank you.” Brenneman settled into his chair. “Let’s roll.”
The presidential-seal wallpaper on the indicated video panel vanished and was replaced by the image of a short-haired man in his forties with heavy features and a thick, fleshy neck that looked as if it had been uncomfortably mashed into the starched collar of his button-down shirt. His hands folded on a desktop, his sleeves rolled to just below his elbows, he sat amid computer banks, monitors, and circulating facility personnel. Save for the missing crawl and the time stamp in the lower right corner, it could have been a feed from Fox News.
“President Brenneman, introducing assistant director of the FBI Joseph Ferrara,” said the watch officer.
Brenneman looked at the display. “Joe, let’s get right to it. What’s the latest?”
“Sir, in the last twenty minutes the Maryland state police have gotten an AW139 helicopter into the air over the center,” Ferrara said in his thick voice. “It’s streaming video, including thermal infrared imagery.” The SIOC chief glanced at a laptop. “The feed is being sent to you, File Code CC-A.”
That was the first feed from the convention center. The group all looked at their laptops. They clicked on the box in the center of the screen to access the image. It showed mostly smoke and chunks of concrete, moving from left to right, with batches of red and yellow shapes scattered throughout.
The shifting red shapes were people. The stationary yellow shapes were also people-those who were losing heat.
Dead bodies.
“Our field units from Baltimore have established a perimeter control and have agents outside the building-”
“What about the hostage situation?” Andrews asked. “Our I-eleven has intercepted tweets from several sources.”
“I was getting to that,” Ferrara said with a trace of annoyance. “We’ve seen those in the database, forwarded them to the agent in charge. She tells us that patterns of ongoing gunfire suggest people are being herded and executed.”
“Jesus,” Secretary Dryfoos said.
“They have six SWAT teams ready to go in, three from the FBI, two from the Baltimore PD, and one from the state police. They’re organizing now so they don’t shoot each other or innocents, with a T-minus of four minutes.”
Andrews sighed and Harper knew why. A lot of people could die in that time period. But the team leaders also had to make sure that they had a single protocol for shoot-to-kill, surrender, explosive vests, wounded civilians, and anything else they might encounter.
Brenneman thanked Ferrara politely, though Harper knew him well enough to know that the president would have liked to hear that units were inside the convention center already and collecting data and video.
“Is there any surveillance footage?” Harper asked Ferrara.
“We’ve got a streaming video from emergency vehicles, and we’re just starting to look at data from the convention center’s computers,” Ferrara said. “They have twenty-four discrete cameras, and we’re running the footage backward.”
That made sense. It would bring up the actionable images first and would leave the forensic images for later.
“Show us what we’re dealing with,” the president said. “Start with the ballroom and food area.”
It was the logical choice, the place where a large percentage of high-value targets from D.C. had been gathered. It was also the place where a great deal of yellow had showed up on the thermal imaging.
“Yes, sir,” Ferrara said and sent over CC-B and C. Each file had images from four separate cameras.
The president glanced at Harper. “Jon, you don’t need to do this.”
“It’s okay, sir,” he said. “I may see something.”
Harper reached for a glass of water as he opened the files on his laptop, his eyes fixed on the carnage.
The video images were arrayed in two rows of four. Clicking on any panel would give the viewer a full-screen view of that particular video.
Seven of the videos were virtually static. Even the particulate matter hanging in the air barely moved. Because the cameras were all at an angle, they were looking through more of it than if they were at ground level and facing straight ahead.
Everyone seemed to react as something moved.
“Camera eight,” Dryfoos said. “Did you all see that?”
Most of the others had already clicked and maximized the image. Harper set the water glass aside and leaned closer to the screen.
There were two people, a male and a female. There were occasional glints of light from the floor, like luminous algae in moving water.
“There’s glass from the barricade beside them,” Andrews said. “Three separate blast patterns.”